


Into the Light

by Jen



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jen/pseuds/Jen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Note to the Reader: Although this is a B/S story, the Spuffy journey itself isn't my primary focus here. My concern in this matter is the destination. Let's just say for the sake of some structure that this is set roughly five or six years from some point in S6 or S7, in a world where Spuffy blossomed into an actualized love story. I'll leave it to you to decide whether Spike needs a soul to act as he does in this story. We've got a couple of time shifts -- just watch me for the changes.<br/>Disclaimer: Not my characters, no profit.<br/>Feedback: Please do.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Into the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Note to the Reader: Although this is a B/S story, the Spuffy journey itself isn't my primary focus here. My concern in this matter is the destination. Let's just say for the sake of some structure that this is set roughly five or six years from some point in S6 or S7, in a world where Spuffy blossomed into an actualized love story. I'll leave it to you to decide whether Spike needs a soul to act as he does in this story. We've got a couple of time shifts -- just watch me for the changes.  
> Disclaimer: Not my characters, no profit.  
> Feedback: Please do.

Even now, her beauty could still just lay him to waste. And this was when Spike loved looking at Buffy the most, early in the morning hours. No matter how accustomed he was to the human schedule of wakefulness and rest, dawn still stubbornly signaled the end of his day, and so he loved to study her in the faint light afforded by daybreak, to make her the last thing he saw before his natural urge to sleep would overtake him.

And although he hated for her rest to be disturbed, he loved it best when she would open those stunning eyes to smile sleepily at him, if only for a second. Her eyes remained closed now, as he carefully pulled the cold steel chair up next to her to end another day at her side.

He brushed his fingers gently over the vivid bruise darkening her left cheekbone. He'd seen a thousand abrasions mar her skin over the years, and none of them even remotely dimmed her beauty. Some things never changed.

He still loved her with all that he was.

She was still the center of his world.

But now he had to say good-bye to her.

***

"Spike?" Buffy called impatiently, tugging a wool cap over her hair and searching for her keys.

No answer.

"I know you can hear me, despite the fact that the TV is loud enough to entertain the whole neighborhood. Hello?!" Aha, keys located. A victory on one front was better than nothing, she thought, as the only response to her latest comment was the sound of screeching tires, courtesy of whatever show Spike was watching at record decibels in the living room.

"Spike!" she repeated, stomping into the front hallway. "Don't make me come in there and kick your ass."

A smile tugged at the corners of Spike's lips. He silently held up one hand while the cacophony of sound blaring through the television's speakers reached a crescendo and then abruptly descended into silence.

"You've got three and a half minutes -- go," he said cheerfully as he hit mute on the remote, taking in her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. God, he loved sparring with her. Physical, verbal, it didn't matter. Here he was, self-proclaimed Big Bad (once removed), caught up in a mundane domestic tableau at the end of an ordinary day, and it felt pretty close to perfect.

"Are you suggesting that I confine my comments to the duration of this commercial break?" Buffy demanded, tapping her foot in annoyance.

"It would be brilliant if you could -- there's just been a drive-by, and we're about to find out whether it was the grizzled veteran cop or his eager, well-intentioned young partner who was wounded," he answered, watching her irritation grow by the second.

Nothing like trying to get a rise out of her.

"Uh-huh. Sounds riveting," she ground out. Then she saw his poorly-disguised smile and changed tactics. Two could play the "getting a rise" game. Buffy crossed the room to his chair and nestled into his lap. "Since I'm on the clock, I'll keep this short," she said sweetly. She suddenly shifted positions, straddling him and grinding her hips into his.

"Christ, woman, you're definitely gonna start something here that can't be finished in three and a half minutes," he gasped.

"Got your attention now?" she whispered, and he merely groaned in response. "I'm going out."

"Now? You're going out now?" he choked, pulling her closer. "Oh, I don't think so."

"Wait, what about the grizzled cop and his young partner?" she asked innocently, leaning forward to nibble on his bottom lip.

"Fuck 'em. Probably just some stupid git on the sidewalk that bought it anyway," he answered, tangling his fingers in her hair. He pulled back abruptly and studied her. "Oh, you're good, Summers. You're very good. 'Course, if this little routine is my 'punishment' for pretending not to listen and blowing you off in favor of the telly, it's not exactly what I'd call negative reinforcement."

"I'm the best," she corrected with a grin, settling on his lap in a little less provocative position and digging in her jacket pocket for gloves. "But we will have to table this reinforcement, as you call it, for later. I really do have to go out. 'Tis the season,' and all that."

"Last minute gifts, eh? You taking Dawn with you?" he asked, sucking her earlobe. She shivered.

"Um, no. I asked, but she's busy talking to Patrick. She'll come out with me and Will tomorrow."

Spike scowled.

"Spike, she's not a little girl anymore. She's a senior in college, for crying out loud. And you'd better get used to Patrick, cuz I don't think he's going anywhere soon." Buffy ignored the lip that jutted out in a pout, despite its undeniable sexiness.

"In fact, I have it in strictest confidence that Patrick may be popping the question sometime before graduation."

Spike's mouth fell open, sullen pout forgotten. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" he spluttered. She's only known him--"

"For two and a half years," Buffy supplied. Really, he was adorable when he was flabbergasted.

"Oi! That's *nothing.* What do two and a half years tell you about a person? We still hated each other after two and a half years!"

"I don't think we're exactly what you'd call a normal couple, dear." Buffy laughed. "I'm guessing our timetable will never be repeated. Besides, Patrick is a good guy, he's already got a good job, and he loves Dawn as much as you love me."

Spike raised an eyebrow incredulously.

"Okay, again, the comparison doesn't really work."

She smiled benevolently at his mood. "Nobody loves anybody as much as you love me."

"Damn right," Spike growled possessively in her ear.

He sighed, and Buffy leaned back onto his shoulder.

"Hard to let the kids grow up, though, isn't it?"

"I'll be all right," he replied mock-stoically. "But yeah."

He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist for a long moment before she stirred. "I really should go. The longer I wait, the more nightmarish trying to find parking at the mall is gonna be."

"Be careful out there. Weather Channel says we're gonna get freezing rain." He craned his neck to see out through the front curtains and into the dark. "In fact, why don't you just skip it, save it for another night?" He tucked his tongue behind his front teeth. "I'm sure we could find something else to occupy our time instead."

Buffy stood, pulled on her gloves, and smiled suggestively. "Oh, there'll be some occupying later, you can count on it." The little minx. It took everything in him not to leap on her that very second. "I've just gotta pick up one very special little item for a very special someone," she smiled at him, and he grinned back, "and then I'm all yours -- what do you say to a patrol around 8:30?"

"What time is it now?" he asked, punching the time display on the TV remote.

"Yeah, you wanna explain to me how you can only tell what time it is relative to the broadcast schedule of 'Passions'? Aren't you supposed to have a sixth-sense about the whole time thing?"

"Just sunrise and sunset, love. The rest is kind of a blur." He stood and pulled aside the curtains.

"Seriously, pet, it's already looking nasty out there. Did I put the snow tires on your car yet?"

"The fact that we don't own snow tires probably points to 'no,'" she answered, leaning forward to follow his gaze out the window. "It's southern California. Where's our traditional Christmas heatwave?"

He chuckled. "Just take it easy out there. Drive slow. And don't slam on the brakes, pump them gently. And turn into a spin, don't jerk the wheel the other way."

"Yes, Dad." Buffy fought to keep from rolling her eyes. "You won't even know I'm gone, if you'd just let me get out the door."

"Okay, okay. Patrol at 8:30, extracurricular activities very shortly thereafter." He grinned wickedly and pulled her in for a final kiss.

"'Bye, baby," she said, pulling her bag onto her shoulder.

Something on the screen caught his attention as she turned to leave. "I'll be damned -- the veteran cop bought it! Bloody hell -- who saw that coming? How can they do that?" Spike exclaimed, frantically punching the volume button on the remote.

He heard her laugh as the front door clicked shut behind her.

***

8:45 and still no Buffy.

Damn it, he though irritably, isn't this what cell phones are for? Why doesn't she at least bloody call? Oh, yeah, the phone was currently occupied by a love-struck twentysomething whose call-waiting philosophy was, "If it's important, they'll call back." A cold needle of worry shot through him as he watched KOUS's coverage of the accidents resulting from the ever-deteriorating road conditions.

California or no, he was getting the woman a set of snow tires.

Five more minutes, he decided. He tapped his fingers impatiently against the chair arm, a gesture that Buffy frequently commented on as indicative of a raging case of ADD, and watched the minutes tick away on the living room clock.

He bounded up the stairs and stopped in the hall outside of Dawn's door, gesturing that he needed to talk to her.

"What's up?" Dawn asked, pressing her palm over the phone's mouthpiece.

"Your sister was supposed to be back 20 minutes ago, and I'm thinking I'll just take a little stroll and see if anything's keeping her, car trouble on the way home, whatnot," he answered, affecting nonchalance, leaning lightly against the door frame.

Dawn knit her brows in concern. "Want me to come with?"

"And break up the phone love-fest?" he snorted. "I'm sure it's nothing. She probably lost track of time at the bloody Nine West store. I swear, if the woman buys one more pair of shoes, she'll give that Imelda Marcos bird a run for her money."

Dawn laughed. "I'm telling her you said that."

"Said what?" he remarked archly. "She'll never believe it -- not after she gets a look at the black Italian leather boots I got her for Christmas. She'll think I'm her dealer." He winked and then cleared his throat awkwardly. Suck it up, you ponce, he thought to himself. "Uh, tell Patrick that we're looking forward to seeing him on Boxing Day."

Dawn squealed and jumped off the bed to give him a quick kiss. "Buffy said you'd come around."

"While I'm still basking in the love, I think I'll take off." He pushed away from the door. "We'll be back in a bit."

A cold wind slapped him in the face as he stepped onto the porch. He rolled his eyes. Cold and wet were mere inconveniences to him, but an inconvenience was an inconvenience, and he'd make her pay for it later.

His eyes gleamed wickedly. Oh, yes, he had several ideas as to how she could make it up to him.

When he reached the front gate, he rolled his neck and shoulders slightly, inhaling deeply. Left it is, he thought as he stepped into the night.

***

He sensed the accident long before he saw it. He could smell the acrid smoke and the metallic scent of blood from blocks away, heard the dull, off-key bleat of a jammed car horn, and he broke out into a dead run. The sleet stung his face, and his vampiric sense of balance alone kept his feet on the slick pavement, but he pushed on. Only when he reached the corner did he skid to a halt.

The sight that greeted him at the intersection of Carter and Pine had the biting impact of a knife to the gut. Both cars were twisted ruins now, but Buffy's car had clearly sustained the most damage, the mangled front end butted up against a now-listing telephone pole. It was the trunk of the car that faced him, but even at this angle he could see that the crumpled metal frame no longer remotely resembled its former shape.

His eyes swung over to the other car, where a young woman in a bright pink track suit -- a passing jogger, he thought dimly -- was knocking frantically on the windows. She was yelling something; he could see her lips moving, almost in slow motion, but he couldn't seem to make out the words. He turned back to Buffy's car, noted offhandedly that there were no windows left to knock on. The shards of broken glass that surrounded her car glittered like diamonds under the harsh glare of the neon streetlights.

And he knew. He was still 25 feet away, but he knew. There was no heartbeat inside.

***

"Off," Buffy said, exasperated. "Spike, I mean it. We have a house full of people, one of whom is Giles -- the thought of what we might be doing up here alone is probably enough to have him snapping his glasses from vigorous over-wiping."

Spike pushed her gently against the back of the bedroom door and nuzzled her neck.

"They've got booze, they've got food, they've got whatever it is that you all think passes for music these days. What do I need to do? Hold their hands and entertain them personally?" He rubbed his blunt teeth over the pulse point beneath her ear. "There's just one person I want to entertain personally, with my own two hands, and she's not downstairs."

"We are the worst hosts ever," Buffy replied with a chuckle. "Seriously, don't you want to celebrate?"

"Celebrating is exactly what I had in mind," he responded seductively, easing the sparkling clip out of her hair and watching the golden threads fall around her shoulders.

A muffled burst of laughter from the crowd below had her reluctantly pushing him away. "We can't -- we'll be missed."

He captured her wrists with one hand, pinned them against the door above her head, and smiled. "I told Dawn I wanted you all to myself for quarter of an hour. She'll play Martha Stewart 'til we go back down."

"Great. My little sister thinks we came up here for a booty call." She'd be icked by the ewww factor if she weren't so damn turned on by that thing he was doing with his tongue.

"Probably. A semester of college seems to have only enhanced her natural intelligence," he murmured into her ear while his free hand went to work on the buttons of her blouse. He tugged it free of her skirt, and it hung open down to her navel, revealing her cream-colored lace bra. Front closure. The woman was a goddess.

Buffy cast a hazy glance over Spike's shoulder to the pile of coats covering their bed. "Hmmm, the bed seems otherwise occupied."

He snorted. "When has that ever stopped us?" He bit at the slim band of fabric between her breasts and twisted gently until the hook was unlatched.

"Let me see if I've got this right." Her eyes danced as she encircled her legs around his waist, and he finally released her hands. "We've got limited time combined with a high risk of getting caught by our guests combined with non-traditional and exciting positions?"

"That's my girl -- cuts right to the heart of the clinical picture." Spike grinned, feeling her shiver as he nibbled lightly at one of her newly-exposed nipples. "Up for it?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" she retorted, reaching down to open his belt and loosen his pants.

He hoisted her upward to slip a forearm beneath her for extra support, and a low moan slipped out of his throat as the rolling of her hips created a dizzying friction between them. He lurched forward until he felt a corner of her vanity table brushing against the back of his hand and deposited her on its top, her legs dangling off the edge. Her insistent hand tugged his head lower, and she caught his lips in a deep, probing kiss.

She pulled back but never broke eye contact as she scooted backwards a few inches and slipped out of her panties. She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as she raised one foot and then the other to the top of the table's surface, planting a high heel on either side of her hips, and drew up her skirt over her knees.

Although he ached to be inside her and although time was of the essence, he still paused for a moment to look at her, half-clothed, half-breathless, cheeks suffused with color, pulsing with life. He reached out, resting the palm of his hand against the side of her face, skimming his thumb across the delicate skin of her cheek.

She was extraordinary, this woman to whom he belonged, this woman who belonged to him. He'd seen her weak, seen her strong, made her laugh, made her cry, made her angry, comforted her. There was no part of her that he didn't know intimately and love passionately.

She could overwhelm him, consume him in an instant. Or she could push him gently but irrevocably and relentlessly to ecstasy.

She could make him remember exactly what it felt like to stand in the light of the sun, even after a century and a quarter in darkness.

And then she smiled at him, a slow-spreading smile that lit every corner of her face and every corner of his being, and drew him into her.

***

He approached the car in a daze. She must have gotten out somehow, gone for help. That would be so like her. Try to save the bloody pillock who'd wrecked her car. Driving too fast for the conditions, the bastard.

No.

He saw her, slumped forward against the shoulder harness, the long golden curtain of hair falling forward to obscure her face, and all other thoughts dissipated. He started to reach his fingers through the gaping hole where the driver's side window should have been, but a gloved hand on his forearm halted his progress.

"She's gone," the jogger said breathlessly, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes and turning to scan the road for traffic. There was none. "I tried to get in there to shut off that damn horn when I checked for a pulse, but the door's jammed. Doors're jammed on the other car too, but I think they'll be okay over there.

Fire and Rescue are on their way, but I think it's a busy night, so they may be a while." She met his eyes for the first time, saw the pain etched across his face. "Oh, God, you know her?"

He swallowed hard, nearly gagged on the lump in his throat, and nodded once. "Stand back," he said hollowly, reaching for the door handle.

"I don't think it'll open." Her voice was quiet, gentle, her eyes sympathetic. "Why don't we just wait over by the curb? Someone'll be here soon."

"Stand back," he repeated and began pulling at the wrecked door. He felt a white hot flame of pain in his shoulder as it disconnected from the socket, but his grip on the handle didn't loosen. He could hear the harsh scraping of metal against metal, felt the hinges give way. With a cry of rage he flung the door away and lunged inside the car, driving his shoulder solidly into the steering wheel. Anything to shut up that fucking horn. It cut off with a sickly whine, and then there was silence, save for the soft ping of falling ice drops hitting already frozen surfaces and the faint buzz of the streetlights overhead.

He reached around her waist and disengaged the seat belt. She fell forward into his arms, and he bit back a scream of grief. He cradled her to him for a long moment, noticed with horror that her eyes were still open, staring fixedly ahead, a slight look of surprise frozen on her face. With shaking fingers he drew her eyelids down and eased her out of the car.

Why was there so little blood? A bloody scrape highlighted the dark welt on her left cheek, and there was a deep gash on her forehead. The broken glass of the windshield had cut little nicks in her ungloved hands, and her blouse was dotted with tiny red specks.

But there were no gaping or violent wounds, nothing indicative of a fatal injury. It seemed darkly obscene to die from what looked like mere cuts and bruises. He'd seen her look a hundred times worse than this and open her eyes. If she'd just open her eyes....

This had to be some kind of mistake. His beautiful girl, his amazing warrior couldn't die in a cold intersection in a car wreck. It was so stupid, so fucking ordinary. Someone who cheated death regularly and thwarted apocalypses at least once a year couldn't be banished from this earth by something so common.

It just wasn't right.

Her head hung limply over his left arm, and her legs swung slightly over his right, and he stood there in the freezing rain, trembling. He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head skyward. Please let this be a mistake.

Had she been afraid? Had there been time for that?

Had she felt the car slip out of her control, or had there just been blissful ignorance? The questions tormented him with ruthless intensity, and his knees buckled. The only thing he knew for sure was that she had been alone. He always promised her that he'd protect her from anything, and it turned out that he couldn't even protect her from a trip to the mall.

His eyes jerked open when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Let's set her down, okay?" It was the jogger again, watching him with sad eyes.

He nodded numbly and sank to the ground, pulling Buffy close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Is there something I can do? Let me help you." The girl's breath plumed out, white and frosty, into the stillness of the night.

"Can you--" His mouth felt like it was full of ashes.

"Do you see her bag in there?"

"Let me check," she answered. Her head and arms disappeared from view as she reached into the car and felt around in the dark. "Got it."

She extracted herself from the car and held the bag open for him. As he reached in for Buffy's cell phone, his fingers brushed a velvet box. He pulled both free and took an unnecessary steadying breath.

"Hello?"

"Xander."

"Hey, Spike. Listen, can I call you back? I've got--"

"There's been an accident," Spike said thickly, his voice sounding distant in his own ears. "I need you to go to the house and get Dawn. We'll be at Sunnydale Memorial."

"Oh, my God. Are you okay?" Xander paused for a moment, and a note of panic had edged into his voice when he continued. "Is it Buffy?"

"I can't--. I have to go." He hit the off button, and the phone struck the asphalt next to him with a reverberating clatter.

The velvet box was still tightly clenched in his right hand, and he moved to open it. A thin paper receipt fluttered out first, and he read the time of payment: 8:19. He crumpled the sleet-dampened paper in his hand and took out the box's other contents, a silver watch that gleamed as it reflected the bright lights above him. He turned it in his hand, caught sight of the small, precise letters engraved into its back: For all time. All my love, Buffy.

Merry Christmas, baby, he thought, as the shriek of approaching sirens assaulted his ears.

***

The doctors talked of a closed-head injury and massive internal bleeding. The police explained that although the driver's side airbag in Buffy's car had inflated when she was struck from behind by the other vehicle, it had deflated before the initial accident's momentum rammed her car into the telephone pole.

Spike heard it all, and it meant nothing to him.

Empty words that he couldn't quite wrap his head around.

Willow had arrived first. She had already been downtown when Xander called and arrived just minutes after the ambulance. She hugged him wordlessly, a steady stream of tears slipping down her cheeks, and Spike patted her back stiffly, distractedly. Numb.

Dawn had collapsed in Xander's arms when she saw Spike's face. He'd expected her to be hysterical, but after the first shock of discovery, she shut down, all hollow eyes that stared sightlessly ahead.

Willow and Xander saw to the paperwork, made the necessary calls.

It was all very civilized, this ritual of death. And achingly familiar.

***

The cup of coffee that Xander had pushed into his hand hours ago before he'd taken Dawn and Willow home was stone cold now and sat untasted at his elbow. Spike set down the pen and cast a tired glance over what he'd written.

"Dawn- I'm so sorry. I didn't want to disappear and leave you never knowing what happened to me. But now that she's gone, I just can't be here anymore. I don't want to leave you alone, but I know that you won't be. Let the people who love you take care of you. They'll need you as much as you need them. It's not that there's nothing left here that I care about. As long as you're here, this place will have something precious to me. Always know that. I know you're going to be an amazing woman -- you already are. She and I have been more proud of you than you'll ever know. I just can't do this again. I survived her once, but I think I must have known somehow that she wasn't finished, that I wasn't finished. Not then. But now it feels like I'm done, Dawn. Hell, it's selfish, and I know it. But it's something other than that too. If I do nothing, I'll just keep going on and on, a freakish perversion of the natural order, and I honestly can't bear the thought of it. I want to rest now. It's time to rest. I think she would understand, and I hope you do too -- and that you can find it in your heart to forgive me someday. I just want to see daylight one more time; it reminds me of her. Remember that I love you."

He folded the sheet carefully and penned her name across the paper. Xander was coming by later to pick up Buffy's belongings, and he would find the letter that Spike now tucked into her purse.

Then he turned back to the gurney. He traced the soft curve of Buffy's lips with his fingers and bent for a final kiss.

***

Spike stood in the shadows of one of the hospital's seldom-used side entrances and pressed his eyes shut against the growing brightness outside. Last night's storm was only a memory now, and the day bloomed as fresh and clear as a crisp spring morning. He'd almost forgotten how brilliant the early morning sun could be, set like a jewel against the pink and blue sky. When he opened his eyes again, he saw her, his shimmering, golden goddess, holding out her hand to him. Glowing, glistening...effulgent. He smiled and stepped out into the light.


End file.
